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“Kakeru, stop.” Haiji raises his hands and places them over Kakeru’s eyes, covering them with his palms.
Something is laid bare inside Kakeru, something as urgent as death or fear or life or–
“I need you to focus on me right now. Is that alright?”
His voice is the same as ever, but also something else at the same time. There’s the old confidence, the warmth of safety Kakeru has come to associate with Haiji’s very presence. And yet, a new bell rings together with these words. Honestly speaking, maybe this bell is quite familiar instead – Kakeru is just very adamant about and extremely proficient at ignoring its existence.
“Yes.”
“Good. Do you remember when I told you you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met?”
Kakeru hums, since he’s certain his voice would deliver way more than words at the moment. Haiji praises him for his answer and for an infinitude of other smaller things – it becomes almost unbearable to keep hearing it. You’re strong and I trust you to do whatever is best and your judgement might feel baseless to you, but believe me when I say I’ve never seen you forego logic in any situation. It keeps coming, an open artery of reassurance, and it keeps getting in the way of whatever Kakeru was trying to accomplish at first; echoes are left in his head, insisting on something about a strategy, a team, and using your legs to run. Or something along these lines. He is entirely sure he used to have a brain up until when Haiji’s warm palms rested against his eyelids.
Haiji keeps asking minor questions, meaningless confirmations after that particular hemorrhage of words, to make sure Kakeru is still very much here and very much listening to him – as if he were strong enough to do anything else. Weakness is just an old acquaintance, but there’s one specific kind he knows intimately. And most of the times, it is not dominant, it does little else besides messing with his sanity, his heartbeat and surreal desires. Yet right now- right now he feels it poisoning even the furthest bits of his conscience.
“Tell me how you feel.”
The hands on his eyes are not heavy, they’re neither uncomfortable, nor unwelcome. They’re none of that, and they are not enough either. He can’t answer for an inadequate number of seconds, and feels Haiji shifting like he’s moving way.
“Haiji-san.”
“Yes? I’m here.”
“Are you?,” he finally stutters out, a mask of a bravery he is definitely, a hundred percent, not feeling right now.
Haiji hands slip off his face, and the anaemic light of the room burns Kakeru’s eyes. Weak sparkles of color become solid shapes, and shapes become reality. And reality is Kiyose Haiji sitting in front of him, legs touching somewhere along the way, his whole body only two words away. Kakeru gets sick with the realness of it all, and considers taking it back, taking it all back. Erasing his very existence if the gods allow him to; he’s tired of making a fool of himself in front of Haiji; rabbit heart and sweating palms like a school boy, and mind running a marathon faster than anything else humanity has ever seen, only to arrive in second place.
One of Haiji’s hands falls to his lap, the other stays on Kakeru’s face; touching but not quite, palm hovering over a too-warm cheek and thumb almost touching lips. Haiji's eyes are too still to pass for unaffected, too wary to disguise as something else. He searches for Kakeru’s own hand with one of his, pressing them together.
Kakeru knows himself, and he knows he is not brave enough for any of this – not articulate enough, not experienced enough. He’s too aware not only of his own shortcomings, but also of how the same kind of thing has played out in the past. Yet, he is nothing but human in front of Haiji – and if he knows history repeats itself, right now he dares it to.
Body leaning forward, now one hand interlaced and the other one undeniably touching a warm face, Haiji kisses him for the first time. It’s all very Haiji-like: tasting like beer, square on Kakeru’s lips, honest, steady. With the potential of starting a revolution.
“I am here,” he answers when he lets go of Kakeru, and smiles at him.
Kakeru breathes once. Twice. And surges forward, slowly, each second becoming two. Haiji doesn’t dare move, eyes glinting in that fraction of time that realization downs upon him and he is granted the view of a couple of frames into the future. Still, he doesn’t dare move – embracing his destiny with nothing but obstinate hope seems like a good enough trait of his, after all.
Kakeru kisses him.
(misses his lips by a full centimeter, but kisses him nonetheless.)
For a beat of silence, nothing happens; yet nothing is the same anymore. It’s like the world has silently tilted five degrees east, but Haiji doesn’t feel like he’s going to fall from his bed. Quite the opposite: he falls on it, bringing Kakeru with him. True to nature, movement only generates more movement – a hand slides to Kakeru’s neck, another one on his recently-bared waist; a second pair on Haiji’s back.
“Hey. Are you good?”
It’s nothing above a whisper of air, and it comes right after Haiji leans back for a second, stares at Kakeru’s squeezed eyes, forehead frowned by the grief of the world. He knows him. Kakeru opens his eyes and nods with more enthusiasm he thought himself capable of. Good, Haiji answers, I trust you, and dives right in.
He presses his lips against Kakeru’s, far from the last time this evening, and offers him nothing but patience. It’s what colors every single one of Haiji’s actions – the way he tugs Kakeru’s hair, the firm pressure he provides with the hand on his waist, how he brushes his lips gently, unwilling to skip a second in time, painstakingly so that Kakeru feels like catching fire is a possible outcome. He doesn’t, of course, even though there’s something undeniably burning inside him right now, heart about to take flight. Focus eventually seems to take patience’s place, and Haiji makes sure to reach deeper, with more intent and much more fervor. He takes his time, and eventually raises his head, using both arms to support his upper body. If Kakeru whines, none of them acknowledge it out loud.
“Talk to me.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Kakeru.”
More blood rushes to his cheeks: once again a school boy - once again, nothing but human.
“Can we not… talk right now? Not right now.”
Haiji smirks, because of course he does, and goes back a little, gives a tiny peck on Kakeru’s temple, another one right on the center of his forehead.
“Sure, but I need you to tell me if this is still ok.”
“It’s ok. God.”
Haiji laughs in good nature, eyes looking the brightest, and traces Kakeru’s eyebrows, nose, cheekbones; feeling his heartbeat without even trying to. Kakeru stares endlessly, certain of his early death by the hands of tachycardia, of happiness, of stuttering words, of bliss. Ready to die at any moment, and yet starving for each second he still has on this planet.
“Come back here.”
“I’m here. I’m coming.”
The world keeps happening outside, of course, but it’s none of their business right now.